
Glass. wU _W.G *? G> 
Book ,L- /v ? 



CO 



pyre 



2Jt± 

-"7/1* 



Bob 

The Story of Our Mocking-Bird 




THE STORY of OUR 
MOCKING-BIRD. By 

Sidney Lanier. With Six- 
teen Illustrations in Color 



Charles Scribner's Sons 
New York, Mdcccxcix 



Copyright, 1883, by ^The Independent 
Copyright, 1899, by Mary Day Lanier 

QLfc7<. 

L1.Z 



M 






ot 



% " C 







Prefatory Note 

* HE poet Sidney Lanier loved to swing in 
full-muscled walks through the fields and 
woods; to take the biggest how and quiver 

out of the archery implements provided for 
himself and his brood of boys, and with them trail- 
ing at his heels, to tramp and shoot at rovers; to be- 
stride a springy horse and ride through the mountains 
and the valleys, noting what they were pleased to 
show of tree and bird and beast life. He could feel 
the honest savage instincl of the hunter (and lose it 
in his first sight of a stag's death-eyes J. A rare 
bird's nest with eggs produced in him the rapture 
vouchsafed to barbarian Boy, along with the divine 
suggestions vouchsafed to the Poet. This may be 
worth while to say to those of Lanier's readers who 
may think of him as a sensitive, delicate man of 
letters, and who must see in most of his writing 
evidences of extreme sensibility. It was this habit of 
a practical, face-to-face conversation with nature 
which, joined with the artist's instincl, makes the 



sketch of "Bob" so veracious a picture of a bird-indi- 
vidual and a bird-species. Lanier's wife and chil- 
dren remember well the delight the bird had for his 
brother artist; how the amused flute would trill with 
extravagant graces to the silent but heedful wonder 
of the caged one. Every surprising token of intelli- 
gence, of affection, of valor displayed by Bob was 
hailed by Mr. Lanier with a bofs ecstacy over a 
pet, and a poet's thankfulness of a beautiful work 
of the Creator. 

'There is, doubtless, no need to assure the reader 
that the events of Bob's life as hereinafter depitled 
are historically true; he was acquired by one of the 
poefs boys, who, forbidden to rob nests, remembers 
his fear, on the way home with Bob in his straw hat, 
that the account of the bird's helpless condition would 
not serve as a fair and reasonable excuse for keep- 
ing him as a pet. 

The illustrations which form so important a part 
of the effort to make a picture of Bob, are unusual 
in their origin and in their method. Mr. Dugmore 
made photographic studies of a young mocking-bird, 



or, rather, of a number of young mocking-birds, the 
photographs were colored by him, and the plates 
from these photographs were printed in color. The 
variety of rare tints in any bird's plumage, their 
extreme delicacy, and the infinitely fine gradations 
of shading have almost always baffled the artist 
and the printer. The present attempt to reproduce 
Mr. Dugmore's masterly piclures in color shows at 
least a handsome advance in the difficult art. 

Charles Day Lanier. 



Otlober, 1899. 



List of Illustrations 

From Photographs made froin Life 
and colored hy A. R. Dug more 

"Boh lying in a lump" To face page 4 

" To increase the volume of his rudimentary 
feathers" 8 

" Throw his head hack and open his yellow- 
lined heak" 10 

"He scramhled to the hars of the cage which 

his feehle companion was unahle to do" 14 

"For it was his own image in the looking- 
glass of a bureau" 28 

"His hath" 30 

"When he smoothed his feathers" 32 

"And as many times slid down the smooth 
surface of the ?nirror and wounded himself 
upon the perilous pin-cushion" 34 

"The most elegant, trim . . . little dandy" 38 

"A sidelong, inquiring posture of the head, 
. . . Is she gone?" 40 



"He eats very often" 42 

"Boh never neglecls to wipe his heak after 

each meal" 44 

"He stretches his body until he seems incredi- 
bly tall" 50 

"When he is cold he makes himself into a 
round hall of feathers" 52 

"When his feathers fall. He is then unspeak- 
ably dejetled. . . . every feather dropped 
from his tail" 56 

"We have only to set Bob's cage where a spot 
of sunshine will fall on it. . . . up goes his 
beak, and he is off" 58 



BOB 



f 

The Mocking-Bird 

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray 

That o'er the general leafage boldly grew, 

He sumtrfd the woods in song; or typic drew 

The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay 

Of languid doves when long their lovers stray, 

And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew 

At morn in brake or bosky avenue. 

Whatever birds did or dreamed, this bird could say. 

Then down he shot, bounced airily along 

The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song 

Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again. 

Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain: 

How may the death of that dull insecl be 

The life of yon trim Shakspere on the tree ? 




BOB 

OT that his 
name ought 
to be Bob at all. 
In respedt of his behavior 
during a certain trying pe- 
riod which I am presently 
to recount, he ought to be 
called Sir Philip Sidney: 
yet, by virtue of his con- 
duSl in another very trou- 



[ i ] 




QB blesome business which I 
will relate, he has equal 
claim to he known as Don 
Quixote de la Mancha : 
while, in consideration that 
he is the Voice of his whole 
race, singing the passions 
of all his fellows better 
than any one could sing 
his own, he is clearly en- 
titled to be named Wil- 
liam Shaksfiere. 
For Bob is our mocki?ig- 



bird. He Jell to us out of 
the top of a certain great 
pine in a certain small city 
on the sea-coast of Georgia. 
In this tree and a host of 
his lordly fellows which 
tower over that little city, 
the mocking-birds abound 
in unusual numbers. They 
love the prodigious masses 
of the leaves, and the gen- 
erous breezes from the 
neighboring Gulf Stream, 




OB 



[ 3 ] 





HHHh 




y# ». 




1 E s • 


-~ 


* 


t "--^*^^ r # 




* 




5 #* * * 




OB 



sions were held. He could 
not be put back into a tree: 
the hawks would have had 
him in an hour. The origi- 
nal nest was not tobejbund. 
JVe struggled hard against 
committing the crime — as 
we had always considered 
it — of caging a bird. But 
finally it became plain that 
there was no other resource. 
InfaSiy we were obliged to 
recognize that he had come 



[ ^ 3 



spoiled child. JVhen it was 
brought, he would throw 
his head back and open 
his yellow-lined beak to a 
width which no one would 
credit who did not see it. 
Into this enormous cavity, 
whichseemed almost larger 
than the bird, his protec- 
tress would thrust — and 
the more vigorously the bet- 
ter he seemed to like it — 
ball after ball of the yolk 




OB 



[ 9 ] 




OB 



of hard-boiled egg mashed 
up with Irish potato. 
How y from this dry com- 
pound which was his only 
fare except an occasional 
worm off the rose-bushes y 
Bob could have wrought 
the surprising nobleness of 
spirit which he displayed 
about six weeks after he 
came to us . . . is a matter 
which I do not believe the 
most expansive application 



10 



of Mr. Herbert Spencer's 
theory of the genesis of 
emotion could even remote- 
ly account for. I refer to 
the occasion when hef airly 
earned the title of Sir Philip 
Sidney. A short time after 
he became our guest a cou- 
ple of other Jledgelings 
were brought and placed 
in his cage. One of these 
soon died, but the other con- 
tinued for some time longer 




OB 




q B to drag out a drooping ex- 
istence. One day, when Bob 
was about six weeks old, 
his usual ration had been 
delayed, owing to the pres- 
sure of other dutiesupon his 
attendant. He was not slow 
to make this circumstance 
known by all the language 
available to him. He was 
very hungry indeed and 
was squealing with every 
appearance of entreaty and 



of indignation when at last 
the lady of the house was 
able to bring him his break- 
fast. He scrambled to the 
bars of the cage — which 
his feeble companion was 
unable to do — took the prof- 
fered ball of egg-and-po- 
tatqfercely in his beak, and 
then, instead of swallowing 
it, deliberately Jlappedback 
to his sick guest in the cor- 
ner and gave him the whole 




OB 



[ n ] 



cup, he ordered that it 
should be handed to the 
soldier, saying, cc His ne- 
cessity is greater than 



mine 



55 




OB 





Mocking - bird 
is called Bob 
just as a goat 
is called Billy or Nan, as 
a parrot is called Poll, as 
a squirrel is called Bunny, 
or as a cat is called Pussy 
or Tom. In spite of the 
suggestions forced upon us 
by the similarity of his be- 
havior to that of the sweet 
young gentleman of Zut- 
phen, our bird continued 



[ 16 ] 



to bear the common appel- 
lation of his race and no 
efforts on the part of those 
who believe in the Jitness 
of things have availed to 
change the habits of Bob's 
friends in this particular. 
Bob he was, is, and will 
probably remain. 
Perhaps under a weight- 
ier title he would not have 
thriven so prosperously. 
His growth was amazing 




OB 



17 




OB in body and in mind. By 
the time he was two months 
old he clearly showed that 
he was going to be a singer. 
About this period certain 
little feeble trills and ex- 
perimental whistles began 
to vary the monotony of his 
absurd squeals and chir- 
rups. The musical busi- 
ness^ and the marvellous 
work of feathering him- 
self ] occupied his thoughts 



[ 18 ] 



continually. I cannot but 
suppose that he superin- 
tended the disposition of 
the blacky white and gray 
markings on his wings and 
his tail as they succes- 
sively appeared: he cer- 
tainly manufadtured the 
pigments with which those 
colors were laid on^ some- 
where within himself ] — * 
and all out of egg-and- 
potato. How he ever got 




OB 



[ 19 ] 




OB 



the idea of arranging his 
feather characteristics ex- 
a&ly as those of all other 
male mocking-birds are 
arranged — is more than I 
know. It is equally beyond 
me to conceive why he did 
not — while he was about 
it — exert his individuality 
to the extent of some little 
peculiar black dot or white 
stripe whereby he could at 
least tell himselffrom any 



20 




q B he engaged his enemy, the 
gallantry with which he 
continued thejight, and the 
good faithful blood which 
he shed while it lasted. In 
all these particulars his 
battle fairly rivalled any 
encounter of the much- 
bruised Knight of la Man- 
cha. 

He was about a year old 
when it happened, and 
thejight took place a long 



11 



way from his native heath. 
He was spending the sum- 
mer at a pleasant country 
home in Pennsylvania. He 
had appeared to take just 
as much delight in the 
clover fields and mansion- 
studded hills of this lovely 
region as in the lonesome 
Jbrests and sandy levels of 
his native land. He had 
sung, and sung: even in his 
dreams at night his sensi- 




OB 



[ *3 ] 




tive little soul would often 
get quite too full and he 
would pour Jbrth raptur- 
ous bursts of sentiment at 
any time between twelve 
o'clock and daybreak. If 
our health had been as 
little troubled by broken 
slumber as was his, these 
melodies in the late night 
would have been glorious; 
but there were some of us 
who had gone into the coun- 



try especially to sleep; and 
we were Jinally driven to 
swing the sturdy songster 
high u/i in our outside porch 
at nighty by an apparatus 
contrived with careful re- 
ference to cats. Several 
of these animals in the 
neighborhood had longed 
unspeakably for Bob ever 
since his arrival. TVe had 
seen them eyeing him from 
behind bushes and through 




OB 




windows, and had once 
rescued him from one who 
had thrust a paw between 
the very bars of his cage. 
That cat was going to eat 
him, art and all, with no 
compun&ion in the world. 
His music seemed to make 
no more impression on cats 
than Keats 9 s made on crit- 
ics. If only some really 
discriminating person had 
been by with a shot-gun 



[ 26 ] 




by circumstantial evidence 
when we returned. As soon 
as he was alone, he had 
availed himself of his un- 
usualfreedom to go explor- 
ing about the room. In the 
course of his investigation 
he suddenly found himself 
confronted by . . . it is 
impossible to say what he 
considered it. If he had 
been reared in the woods 
he would probably have re- 



28 



garded it as another mock- 
ing-birdj—Jbr it was his 
own image in the looking- 
glass of a bureau. But he 
had never seen any member 
of his race except thejbr- 
lorn little urifledged speci- 
men which he hadjedatsix 
weeks of age^ and which 
bore no resemblance to this 
tall, gallant^ bright-eyed 
Jigure in the mirror. He 
had thus had no opportu- 




OB 



C *9 ] 




OB 



nity to generalize his kind; 
and he knew nothing what- 
ever of his own personal 
appearance except the par- 
tial hints he may have 
gained when he smoothed 
his feathers with his beak 
after his bath in the morn- 
ing. It may therefore very 
well be that he took this 
sudden apparitionfor some 
Chimcera or dire monster 
which had taken advan- 



[ 30 ] 



him to new rage. In order 
to give additional momen- 
tum to his onset he would 
retire towards the other 
side of the room and thence 
Jly at the Joe. Again and 
again he charged: and as 
many times slid down the 
smooth surface of the mir- 
ror and wounded himself 
upon the perilous pin-cush- 
ion. As I entered, being 
Jirst up from table, he was 




OB 



[ 33 ] 




q B in the adt of fluttering 
down against the glass. 
The counterpane on the 
bed, the white dimity cover 
of the bureau, the pin-cush- 
ion, all bore the bloody re- 
semblances of his feet in 
various places, and showed 
how many times he had 
sought distant points in or- 
der to give himself a run- 
ning start. His heart was 
beating violently, and his 



[ 34 ] 



feathers were ludicrously 
tousled. And all against 
the mere shadow of him- 
self IN ever was there such 
a temptation for the head 
of a family to assemble his 
people and draw a prodi- 
gious moral. But better 
thoughts came : for, after 
all, was it not probable 
that the poor bird was de- 
fending — or at any rate 
believed he was defending 




OB 



[ 35 ] 




OB 



— the rights and proper- 
ties of his absent masters 
against a Joe of unknown 
power? All the circum- 
stances go to show that he 
made the attack with a 
faithful valor as reverent 
as that which steadied 
the lance of Don Quixote 
against the windmills. In 
after days, when his cage 
has been placed among the 
boughs of the trees, he has 



[ 3^ ] 



not shown any warlike 
feelings against the robins 
and sparrows that passed 
about, but only a friendly 
interest. 

At this present writing, 
Bob is the most elegant, 
trim, ele&ric, persuasive, 
cunning, tender, coura- 
geous, artistic little dandy 
of a bird that mind can im- 
agine. He does not confine 
himself to imitating the 




OB 



C 37 ] 




O B songs of his tribe. He is a 
creative artist. I was wit- 
ness not long ago to the se- 
lection and adoption by him 
of a rudimentary whistle- 
language. During an ill- 
ness it Jell to my lot to sleep 
in a room alone with Bob. 
In the early morning, when 
a lady — to whom Bob is 
passionately attached — 
would make her appear- 
ance in the room, he would 



[ 38 ] 



salute her with a certain 
joyful chirrup, which ap- 
pears to belong to him pe- 
culiarly. I have not heard 
it from any other bird. But 
sometimes the lady would 
merely open the door, make 
an inquiry, and then re- 
tire. It was ?iow necessary 
for his artistic soul tojind 
some form of expressing 
grief. For this purpose he 
seledted a certain cry al- 




OB 



[ 39 ] 




OB 



most identical with that 
of the cow-bird — an inde- 
scribably plaintive, long- 
drawn, thin whistle. Day 
after day I heard him 
make use of these expres- 
sions. He had never done 
so before. The mournful 
one he would usually ac- 
company, as soon as the 
door was shut, with a side- 
long inquiring posture of 
the head, which was a 



[ 40 ] 











clear repetition of the lov- 
er's Is she gone? Is she 
really gone? 


JjOB 




[ 41 ] 







&>HERE is one 

particular in which 
Bob's habits cannot 
be recommended. He eats 
very often. Injadt if Bob 
should hire a cook, it would 
be absolutely necessary for 
him to write down his 
hours for her guidance; 
and this writing would look 
very much like a time-table 
of the Pennsylvania, or 
the Hudson River, or the 



[ 4* ] 




OB 



minutes until 6 p.m.); my 
supper is irregular , but I 
wish Bridget particularly 
to remember that I always 
eat whenever I awake in 
the night, and that I usu- 
ally awake Jour or Jive 
times between bedtime and 
daybreak" TVith all this 
eatings Bob never negledts 
to wipe his beak after 
each meal. This he does by 
drawing it quickly^ three 



[ 44 ] 



or Jour times on each side, 
against his perch. 
I never tire of watching 
his motions. There does not 
seem to be the least Jridtion 
between any of the com- 
ponent parts of his sys- 
tem. They all work, give, 
play in and out, stretch, 
contrast, and serve his 
desires generally with a 
smoothness and soft pre- 
cision truly admirable. 




OB 



[ 45 ] 




OB 



Merely to see him leap 
from his perch to thejloor 
of his cage is to me a never- 
failing marvel. It is so 
instantaneous , and yet so 
quiet : clip, and he is down, 
with his head in the food- 
cup: I can compare it 
to nothing but the stroke 
of Fate. It is perhaps a 
strained association of the 
large with the small: but 
when he suddenly leaps 



[ 46 ] 




OB 



woods where he would have 
had the opportunity to hear 
the endlessly-various calls 
of his race. So Jar as we 
can see, the stock of songs 
which he now sings must 
have been brought in his 
own mind from the egg, or 
from some further source 
whereof we know nothing. 
He certainly never learned 
these calls: many of the 
birds of whom he gives per- 



[ 48 ] 




them, make any sign that 
he desired to retain them, 
beyond a certain air of at- 
tention in his posture. Up- 
on repetition on a differ- 
ent day, his behavior was 
the same: there was no 
attempt at imitation. But 
sometime afterward, quite 
unexpectedly, in the hila- 
rious jlow of his birdsongs 
would appear aperfedt re- 
production of the whistled 



[ So ] 



tones. Like a great artist 
he was rather above Jiitile 
and amateurish efforts. He 
took things into his mind, 
turned them over, and, 
when he was jierfedtly sure 
of them, brought themforth 
with perfedtion and with 



unconcern. 



He has his little joke. His 
favorite response to the en- 
dearing terms of the lady 
whom he loves is to scold 




OB 



[ 51 ] 



and stretches his leg along 
the inner surface of it as 
far as he is able. 
He has great capacities in 
the way of elongating and 
contrasting himself JVhen 
he is curious, or alarmed, 
he stretches his body until 
he seems incredibly tall and 
of the size of his neck all the 
way. TVhen he is cold, he 
makes himself into a round 
ball of feathers. 




OB 



[ 53 ] 





OB €T THINK I envy 
him most when he 
goes to sleep. He 
takes up one leg somewhere 
into his bosom, crooks the 
other a trifle, shortens his 
neck, closes his eyes, — and 
it is done. He does not ap- 
pear to hover a moment 
in the borderland between 
sleeping and waking but 
hops over the line with the 
same superb decision with 



[ 54 ] 



which he drops from his 
perch to thejloor. I do not 
think he ever has anything 
on his mind after he closes 
his eyes. It is my belief that 
he never committed a sin of 
any sort in his whole life. 
There is but one time when 
he ever looks sad. This is 
during the season when 
his feathers Jail. He is 
then unspeakably deje&ed. 
Never a note do we get 




OB 



[ S5 ] 




IOB 



from him until it is over. 
Nor can he be blamed. Last 
summer not only the usual 
loss took place, but every 
feather dropped from his 
tail. His deje&ion during 
this period was so extreme 
that we could not but be- 
lieve he had some idea of 
his personal appearance 
under the disadvantage of 
no tail. This was so ludi- 
crous that his most ardent 



[ 56 ] 




OB 



Jident, dashing, riotous, 
innocent, sparkling glory 
of jubilation, we have only 
to set Bob's cage where a 
spot of sunshine will Jail 
on it. His beads of eyes 
glisten, his form grows in- 
tense, ufi goes his beak, and 
he is off. 

Finally we have sometimes 
discussed the question: is 
it better on the whole, that 
Bob should have lived in 



[ 5» ] 



1 1 Ai 


wf 


/ 


L 




f 


ffli 








I 


_ 


§ a ~~ ' 


1 


K%**\ 


morfc 





a cage than in the wild- 
wood? There are conflidt- 
ing opinions about it: but 
one of us is clear that it is. 
He argues that although 
there are many songs which 
are never heard, as there 
are many eggs which never 
hatch, yet the general end 
of a song is to be heard, 
as that of an egg is to be 
hatched. He further argues 
that Bob's life in his cage 




OB 



[ 59 ] 




OB 



has been one long blessing 
to several people who stood 
in need of him: whereas 
in the woods , leaving aside 
the probability of hawks 
and bad boys, he would 
not have been likely to gain 
one appreciative listener for 
a single half hour out of 
each year. And, as I have 
already mercifully released 
you from several morals 
(continues this disputant) 



60 



which I might have drawn 
from Bob, I am resolved 
that no power on earth shall 
prevent me from drawing 
thisjinal one. — JVe have 
heard much of "the privi- 
leges of genius" of "the 
right of the artist to live 
out his own existence free 
from the conventionalities 
of society" of "the un- 
morality of art " and the 
like. But I do protest that 




OB 



[ 61 ] 




the greater the artist, and 
the more profound his pity 
toward the fellow -man 
Jbr whom he passionately 
works, the readier will he 
his willingness to forego 
the privileges of genius 
and to cage himself in the 
conventionalities, even as 
the mocking-bird is caged. 
His struggle against these 
will, I admit, be the great- 
est: he will feel the bitterest 



[ 62 ] 



sense of their uselessness 
in restraining him from 
wrong-doing. But, never- 
theless, one consideration 
will drive him to enter the 
door and get contentedly on 
his perch: hisfrllow-men, 
his frllow-men. These he 
can reach through the re- 
spedtable bars of use and 
wont; in his wild thickets 
of lawlessness they would 
never hear him, or, hear- 




OB 



C 6 3 ] 




O B i n g> would never listen. In 
truth this is the sublime st 
of self-denials, and none 
but a very great artist can 
compass it: to abandon 
the sweet green forest of 
liberty, and live a whole 
life behind needless con- 
straints, for the more per- 
fect service of his fellow- 
men. 



[ 6 4 ] 



Epilogue 



f 

To Our Mocking-Bird 

Died of a Cat, May, 1878 

I 

Trillets of humor, — shrewdest whistle-wit, — 
Contralto cadences of grave desire 
Such as frofn off the passionate Indian pyre 
Drift down through s andal-o dor ed flames that split 
About the slim young widow who doth sit 

And sing above, — midnights of tone entire, — 
tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire; — 
Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite 
Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave 
And trickling down the heak, — discourses brave 
Of serious matter that no man may guess, — 
Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress — 
All these but now within the house we heard: 
Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird? 



II 

Ah me, though never an ear for song, thou hast 
A tireless tooth for songsters: thus of late 
Thou earnest, Death, thou Cat/ and leaf st my gate, 
And, long ere hove could follow, thou hadst passed 
Within and snatched away, how fast, how fast, 
My bird — wit, songs, and all — thy richest freight 
Since that fell time when in some wink of fate 
Thy yellow claws unsheathed and stretched, and cast 
Sharp hold on Keats, and dragged him slow away, 
And harried him with hope and horrid play — 
Ay, him, the world's best wood-bird, wise with 

song — 
Till thou hadst wrought thine own last mortal 
wrong. 
'Twas wrong! 'twas wrong! I care not, 

wrong 's the word — 
To munch our Keats and crunch our mocking- 
bird. 



Ill 

Nay, Bird; my grief gainsays the Lord's best right. 
'The Lord was fain, at some late festal time, 
That Keats should set all Heaven's woods in 
rhyme, 
And thou in bird-notes. Lo, this tearful night, 
Methinks I see thee, fresh from death's despite, 
Perched in a palm-grove, wild with pantomime, 
O'er blissful companies couched in shady thyme, 
— Methinks I hear thy silver whistlings bright 
Mix with the mighty discourse of the wise, 
Till broad Beethoven, deaf no more, and Keats, 
'Midst of much talk, uplift their smiling eyes, 
And mark the music of thy wood-conceits, 
And halfway pause on some large, courteous word, 
And call thee "Brother" thou heavenly Bird! 



Baltimore, 1878. 



D. B. Updike 

T^he Merrymount Press 

104 Chestnut Street 

Boston 



LBJl'19 



